The Return of Sherlock Holmes
by Anevay
Summary: "Sher... Sher... Sh-Sherlock?"


**DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately and probably for the best - I don't own the amazing Sherlock. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat (curse that man!) are the wonderful head writers that both make and ruin our lives. It's for the best. Really.**

****A/N: SERIOUSLY, read this! Authors put notes in these things for a reason.

This takes place a year after Sherlock's 'suicide,' although I know in the original Sherlock Holmes _The Final Problem_ and _The Adventure of the Empty House _by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock comes back after two years. I've heard rumors about six months after (for _Sherlock_) and various other times, so I just stuck it somewhere in the middle - a year. Deal with it.

I've also included the return of John's limp and tremor to show the traumatic affect it had on him - I don't know, obviously, if that would really happen. I just think it illustrates how much Sherlock's death impacted him.

**Also!** **NO**, I **DO NOT** believe in the whole Sherlock and John _gay_ thing - it's a disgrace to the original Sherlock Holmes, and the greatest friendship/duo of all time, so sorry to those of you who ship it. I won't be doing any of that. Just thought I would get that out there. I do not, by any means, mean to be offensive.

So, this is my thoughts on what may happen, roughly, though it could happen any time or any way at all - I believe, after a time, that Sherlock would reveal himself to John when he believed it was safe for him.

Well, I hope you enjoy this little one-shot! Con-Crit appreciated.

* * *

_The Return of Sherlock Holmes_

It had been a year since… Sherlock.

Feeling the aching absence of his friend, John Watson had moved back in to 221B Baker Street. He had a permanent practice as a doctor. He dated. He went about in a usual routine. He didn't blog anymore, however—he didn't have a reason. At the same time, he didn't have the heart to delete it. He kept trying to bring himself to. Yet, it remained.

Though he had a normal, mundane and restful existence, he was restless. Something about the whole business with his friend bothered him. There was a nagging persistence that Sherlock Holmes _couldn't _be… dead. He couldn't be. And yet his senses contradicted him: he had _seen _Sherlock. He had stood over his grave more than once. He had watched him… fall. Every bit of evidence said he was gone, but something else told him that his senses _must _be wrong. This was Sherlock Holmes. This was the great London Consulting Detective, the man who saw and knew all—he had considered more than once that he had faked his death. For a long time, he told himself that he had. His life without Sherlock was dull, mundane, slow—it was _boring. _It was sad. It was uneventful. It was just like before that first strange, fateful day he had met Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a peculiar oddity of a man who seemed to know everything at one glance. A maddening, rude, arrogant, superior jerk who saw all and knew all but knew and saw nothing of emotion and humanity. That cocky, larger-than-life man had become his best friend. Now he was gone, just like that.

The worst part about it all was the effect it had on his body—he couldn't sleep half the time, the tremor in his left hand had returned, and so had his limp. A limp he had been quite sure was gone.

Leaning slightly on the chair previously considered Sherlock's, he stared out the window to down at Baker Street. _Look at them, _he thought, watching the people go about their normal routines. _Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it _hateful?

He couldn't know that Sherlock had spoken those exact words about him, standing in the same spot he stood now.

There was a knock at the door. He turned as Mrs. Hudson stepped in. "John," she said, "I've got a man downstairs who is insisting on seeing you."

"Who?"

She shrugged uncertainly. "He wouldn't say, but he's insisting. He says he's an old friend."

John waved a hand. "Send him up."

She nodded and scurried away to bring him up. John remained where he was; his service revolver was in his pants. He patted Sherlock's seat unconsciously.

Behind him, the door closed; that was unusual. John turned to face his visitor with a wondering frown. He was a tall, thin man in tan trousers, a light blue button up and a brown waist coat. His shoes were covered in dust, as well as his long brown trench coat suspended on the hook on the back of the door, along with a dark hat. He had a raggedy light colored scarf to his face, as if wiping it clean. He turned away to bring it from his face, revealing a mop of curly dark brown hair—he placed the scarf with his other articles of clothing on the hook. Something about his lean, tall, thin form was far too familiar. In a husky voice, he said: "Close those drapes, would you?"

Limping awkwardly, and uncertainly, he did as asked, though he wasn't sure why. He then returned to leaning on the edge of Sherlock's chair for support. "You can turn around now, if you would, please," John said, though it was obvious it wasn't up for debate.

The man turned. Light colored, keen eyes glittered under curly brown hair—he had the sharpest cheekbones of any man he had ever seen. He smiled and said: "Hello, John."

John's jaw dropped in amazement. He could only stare, uncomprehending. It took him a moment to respond. "Sher… Sher… Sh-Sherlock?" he finally managed, his voice raspy and choked.

"Hello, John," he repeated.

Abruptly, John's knees collapsed as he fainted.

"John? John!" Sherlock exclaimed, first in confusion, then in shock. He leapt forward and only just managed, upon falling to the ground with him, to catch his friend under the arms before his back and head hit the ground. John's limp form fell forward against Sherlock's arm. Sherlock laid him gently on the ground, kneeling over him ad gently patting his face to wake him. "John, John! John…"

. . .

A strong smell under John's nose woke him. Groggily, he blinked and muttered, "Sherlock?"

"Here, John."

There, looming over him—his keen eyes peering in confusion at John's face, actually appearing worried, though there was a hint of a cocky smile at the corners of his lips, as if expecting some sort of exclamation—there, _not _dead, was Sherlock Holmes.

John was lying on the couch; Sherlock had perched himself on the table beside him. "Sherlock," John repeated, as if to assure himself that he was really there. "Sherlock Holmes, you're—"

"Alive," Sherlock finished for him. "Yes." He looked John over. "Are you alright?"

John raised his eyebrows in a disbelieving fashion. "Am I alright? Am I—?" his mouth was opened to speak, but he appeared to change his mind and instead tackled Sherlock—over the table and on to the floor. He punched him in the face and shook him until Sherlock pushed him off of him and caught him in a choke hold.

"John! First you faint and then you punch me? I'm getting very mixed feelings from you, John!"

John elbowed him, shoving him to the ground so that his hands pinned Sherlock's shoulders to the ground. He put a knee on his gut. He blinked to keep the salt-water in and took deep breaths while Sherlock waited for an answer. With one last shove, John sat back and said croakily, voice breaking, "You made me think you were _dead, _Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat up. They were breathing heavily. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly after a moment's silence. "I had no choice. You had to believe I was dead or they wouldn't. To be honest, my dear John Watson, I didn't know it would affect you so much."

"No, that's just it," John ranted angrily, "You _didn't _think! You honestly didn't think watching my best friend kill himself wouldn't _affect _me?" He glared at Sherlock, who in turn, had a soft look in his eyes—there was something there that suggested true sorrow for putting John through it.

"I'm sorry, John." His eyes pleaded forgiveness with the only person he considered a friend who also considered _him_ a friend in return. "It was never a matter of trust, you know. I had no choice."

John let out a long breath. He shook his head. "Alright, fine," he submitted, "Why? Who's 'they'?"

Sherlock stood. John shook his head again, muttering: "He's alive. I hate him."

Sherlock grinned, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet. They each plopped in to their respective chairs. John grinned. "I hate you," he muttered again. "I honestly hate you sometimes."

"Do you want to hear how I survived or not?" he asked with a grin.

"Of course I do." John responded at once.

"Excellent."

* * *

**Sorry, won't be going in to any details on Sherlock's survival - you know the theories, and I wouldn't do it justice. We'll leave that to Gatiss and Moffat and their team of writers. Hope you enjoyed it!**

**-Anevay**


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